SCUM Goes to Therapy
by Tori of Lorien
Summary: Oneshot. Dr. Shelby had it easy.


**S.C.U.M. Goes to Therapy**

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing associated with Ring of Honor. Only Dr. Oliver Wainwright and this silly little idea!

**Summary**: Oneshot. Dr. Shelby had it easy.

**Characters**: Kevin Steen, Jimmy Jacobs, Steve Corino, and OC

**Pairings**: None

**Rating**: T

**Genre**: Humor

**Author's Note**: So, I've been watching some older Ring of of Honor DVDs lately, and I've been thinking about how much I still love this group. And this random little idea came up, so I decided to run with it. My favorite part of this group was when it was just the original three members, so those are the only three I'll be using. My S.C.U.M. muse has also been quite active, so I'll be having more in the works with this villainous, crazy trio that won't be so lighthearted and humorous, but I thought this idea would be easier to go with as a sort of introduction to who these guys are. All information used is from shoot interviews or the storyline itself since I'm basing them purely off their in-ring characters for this story. Read and review if you wish, just no flames please! Enjoy!

_From the desk of Dr. Oliver Wainwright_

Good morning. My name is Dr. Oliver Wainwright, and I've been a therapist and counselor going on thirty-odd years after graduating with my Master's from a top Ivy League university after God knows how many hours of hard work. I have seen my fair share of problems in the many cases that have come across my desk over all that time, ranging from cheating significant others to vices and addictions, from difficult children to disasters. I have seen it all.

Though I have been warned that three cases in particular that are on docket for me today may be slightly more difficult than what I'm accustomed to. I find this claim hard to believe, for I have dealt with some very difficult, and sometimes very personal, issues during my time at this prestigious establishment. It will take a lot for me to handle a case I view to be exceedingly demanding, though I am always up for a challenge. They make life interesting.

I look forward to it.

_Case #1: Kevin Steen, 5-23-12. 9:30 a.m._

As I sip my morning coffee, black and strong, of course, I find myself faced with a somewhat rotund fellow wearing a t-shirt that resembles the front of a tuxedo and a pair of black and white athletic shorts. He appears bored, leaning back in his seat across the desk from me as he gazes at the ceiling as though something there has caught his attention. I glance up myself, making sure nothing there is out of the ordinary, such as cobwebs or mold stains. I have to keep a tidy office, after all. It adds to the peaceful ambiance of the room, both for myself and for my patients. Fortunately, everything is in order, though I wonder if he even knows why he's here.

I quietly clear my throat, and his head snaps up to attention. He regards me with wide eyes for a moment before a grin spreads across his face.

"Hi, doc!" he says cheerfully. "How ya doin'?"

I nod as I jot down a few notes in my notepad with my freshly sharpened pencil. There seems to be a childlike innocence about this man. So far, nothing too unusual, nor is there anything I have not dealt with before. "I am well, thank you," I answer. "And how are you, Mr. Steen?"

"Please, that sounds way too formal, even though I did dress up for the occasion." He brushes my words off with a wave of his hand. Another note in the notepad. He still seems to be taking this session lightly.

"All right. What would you prefer I call you?"

"Well, my name's Kevin Steen, and I..." He pauses, looking around as though waiting for some kind of response. This confuses me.

Mr. Steen laughs then. "Oh, right. This isn't Alcoholics Anonymous, is it?"

"No, this facility is..." I begin, though I'm soon cut off.

"I'm just kidding with ya, doc!" Mr. Steen assures me with a smile still on his face. "I don't drink anyway. You know, when I get stressed out or angry about something, I eat. I like to eat."

I'm nearly caught up with all my notes so far. _Likes to interrupt. Likes to make jokes_. Yes, there is certainly something childlike about Mr. Steen. "Well, it's good that you've found a healthier alternative to something such as alcohol," I tell him. "Though even something such as eating is only healthy when done in moderation."

His smile instantly vanishes, replaced with a dark look I have not yet seen. I pause in my writing, unsure of what to make of this newest development. Perhaps there is another side to Mr. Steen I am not aware of.

"Are you calling me obese?" he asks, all humor gone from his tone.

I give myself a moment to form my answer as I finish writing my notes about this latest development. I was informed that Mr. Steen had some problems with his anger before he came in for his session, and I feel that is starting to make its way to the surface. We're making progress. "No, I would never do such a thing..."

But then, his smile returns. "Ah, don't worry, doc! I'm just joshin' ya!" he exclaims, once again accompanied by a wave of his hand. "I know I don't have the perfect beach body or anything like that. Geeze, you don't have to take things so seriously all the time!"

I let out a sigh of relief. I have seen separate personalities in patients before, but that does not seem to be the case with Mr. Steen. It simply seems to be a case where he can go from one extreme to the other in a matter of seconds.

"But in all seriousness, I guess eating would be my vice," he continues, eyeing the coffee mug in my hand as I take another sip when I pause in my notes. He seems to not realize his seemingly deep-rooted anger may actually be the problem at hand. "Hey, can I have a cup of that?"

"By all means." I gesture to the coffee station set up across the office from us. I always like to offer a warm beverage for my patients if they would like one, for I feel it can help create a feeling of camaraderie. Plus, I always like to have it available for myself.

"Thanks, doc! You're the best!" With a smile, Mr. Steen goes to pour himself a nice, hot cup of coffee. I glance at my mug, seeing it's well over half full, before studying the notes I've already written. My preliminary diagnosis for my new client is certainly an anger management issue.

He hums to himself as he starts to pour more cream and sugar into his coffee than I would deem necessary as he looks at the volumes on my bookshelf. "Hey, you have some pretty neat looking books here, doc!" he says cheerfully. "A lot of words and names I can't pronounce, though."

I smile slightly as he stirs his coffee before taking a sip. Though right after, he spits it out, right on my freshly vacuumed and washed carpet. I cringe. I just had that cleaned this morning.

"Man, I don't know why all you guys drink this stuff." Mr. Steen laughs as he leaves the full mug on the table before looking down at the small stains left behind on the floor. "Oops! Sorry about that, doc." He sits back in the chair in front of my desk. "Hey, do you have anything else to drink?"

"Water," I inform him, trying my best to unclench my jaw. "I have water."

Mr. Steen shrugs. "Sure! I'll take some of that, if you wouldn't mind!"

Taking a deep breath, I cross the room to where I keep a mini refrigerator stocked with small water bottles for patients who are not keen on coffee. I should have realized my latest client probably would have preferred the water from the start.

"Hey, thanks, doc!" Mr. Steen seems genuinely pleased as I hand him the bottle and sit back down at my desk to make a couple more notes in my notepad. He takes a sip and fortunately swallows it before looking at me curiously. "So, uh, what are we doin' today?"

I pull another notepad out of a drawer. I'm glad that we can finally get this session underway. "We're going to start with a simple exercise," I explain as I set it in front of him before pulling out a black pen from its holder and giving that to him as well. "I want you to draw a picture of how you're feeling for me."

"How I'm feeling right now?"

"Yes, how you're feeling right now."

"Like, right now, right now?"

"Yes. Right now."

Mr. Steen sets down his water bottle before picking up the notepad, his brow furrowed in deep thought as he taps the pen against his chin. Finally, he seems to reach some sort of conclusion as he starts on his drawing, his tongue between his teeth in concentration. I lean forward on the desk, and he pauses and looks up at me.

"Hey, no peeking, doc," he says as he puts the notepad on his lap to hide it from my view. "That's no fair."

I lean back in my chair, granting him the privacy to complete the masterpiece he seems to think he'll produce.

Though said masterpiece didn't take long to finish, for nearly a minute later, Mr. Steen grins as he sets the pen down on the desk before proudly displaying what is on his notepad. "Here ya go, doc! What do you think? It's good enough to go on that little mini fridge over there, huh? Here, I'll even sign my name for ya!" He quickly scribbles his signature in the bottom right hand corner before setting it down.

I lean forward on the desk, lowering my glasses slightly to get a better look at the drawing. I see why it didn't take too long to complete, for he had drawn two stick figures. One had a large head with what appeared to be some sort of mask on with x's for eyes while the other, also with a large head, had a smile on its face as it held what looked like a chair against the other's head.

I have no idea what it is I'm looking at.

"Do you care to explain what is going on in this picture?" I ask. It is the only way I'm going to get into the mindset of my patient.

"Sure thing, doc!" Mr. Steen's grin remains as he looks at his drawing. "See, this one's me." He points to the smiling stick figure. "And I'm hitting Generico in the head with a chair."

I stare at the drawing in shock. Just what have I gotten myself into? "I see," I manage to mutter, looking at the notes I've been compiling as well as the file I'd been given that briefly details my patient for any information about this other person. "And who is this... Generico, was it?"

"El Generico, yeah." Mr. Steen nods. "See, doc, we used to be best friends, he and I. We did everything together, you know? But..." His sentence trails off as he chuckles, raising a hand in a frustrated manner. "He's from Canada like I am, and he's playing a luchador. I mean, that's kinda confusing, if you think about it. I dunno, it took quite a bit of convincing to turn against him, but... I dunno. I kicked him in the nuts, and I've dropped him on his head a few times along with other violent acts since, and I've been happy about it." He shrugs and drinks more of his water.

I take this opportunity to write all of this information down in my notepad. It seems as though we've found the source of his anger in this masked man. This is good. This is promising.

"So, I've done a lot of bad things lately... I am supposed to talk about this stuff with you, right, doc?" Mr. Steen asks.

I pause in my writing and look up. "Yes, if you feel comfortable," I answer. His willingness to talk about what he has done because of his anger encourages me.

"Okay, cool!" A smile once again appears on Mr. Steen's face as he leans back in his chair, crossing his arms as he thinks. "I've dropped a lot of people on their heads. And faces. Whatever, really. Hell, I dropped one of my now best friends on his ribs on a couple of chairs to get back at my other now best friend. That was pretty cool. I hit people with furniture. I curse up a storm at people I don't like. Sometimes at people I do like, I really don't have a preference. I can have a mouth of a sailor if I don't like ya, doc! I..." His sentence trails off as he chuckles. "I was supposed to go to a fancy dinner for the guy I work for, and I basically said that his wife was wrinkly because I thought it'd be a fun conversation starter. No one else found that funny, though. I threatened to eat a guy's face off because he wouldn't stop poking me in the chest like this." He demonstrates the action on himself. "It was annoying. Yeah, I guess you can say I've become a real monster lately, and I've turned my new friends into monsters, too! It's one of my friend's faults, though. I wouldn't be like this if it wasn't for him."

I'm unsure what I can say in response to the laundry list of offenses he's committed recently. The violence that has resulted from his moments of anger is startling. Even more shocking is that he seems proud of these actions, almost as though he doesn't see any cause for ramification, and that he is not at fault for them. I jot this down. This is a crucial part of his anger management issue I will have to get to the bottom of.

"So, you say the fault lies with your friend," I state. "Would that be–!" I jump slightly when Mr. Steen suddenly raises his free hand in a claw-like fashion and growls quietly.

"Sorry. Monster." He chuckles, sitting back in his seat again.

I clear my throat, going back to my notes to get back on track. "All right, then... So, your friend who is at fault. Would that be Generico?"

Mr. Steen shakes his head as he takes another sip of water. "No, that would be my friend Steve," he tells me. "I think you'll see him later because he's signed up for this, too. But, Generico is the one I enjoy dropping on his head more than anyone."

A couple more notes in my notepad. "So... dropping people on their head and hitting people with chairs... Would you say these are things that make you happy?"

"Oh, yeah, doc! It's fun, you should try it sometime!" Mr. Steen grins. "But what else really makes me happy are zoos."

I pause in my writing. This certainly has not been a part of his pattern. "Zoos?" I repeat, ensuring I have heard him correctly.

"Yeah!" His grin remains. "I'm a zoo enthusiast. Sometimes I bring my son, Owen, when I go. That's a lot of fun."

So, we've returned to the childlike innocence of my new patient. I make a note of this. Yes, he can definitely go from one extreme to the other in only a matter of seconds. "All right, Mr. Steen..."

"Kevin."

I pause, seeing he's looking at me with a blank look on his face. It is the same look he gave me when he believed I had called him obese. It is a look I do not wish to see. "All right. Kevin..." The serious look vanishes, replaced with a good-natured one. "We're going to try another simple activity now."

His face brightens up. "Like the drawing thing?"

"Sort of. I'm going to show you a series of pictures. Ink blots, really, that take on no particular shape, and you're going to tell me what you see. All right?"

Mr. Steen nods, leaning forward in his chair a bit. "Sure! Let's do it!"

I make a quick note of his enthusiasm before reaching into a drawer and pulling out a stack of papers with said ink blots on them. The Rorschach test has been a tried and true method for gaining more of an insight into the minds of my patients for years, and I feel it will help me get somewhere with my newest one. I hold up the first paper.

"A giraffe," Mr. Steen answers without hesitation.

I set it down and hold up another.

"A monkey." His response comes just as quickly.

Another.

"An otter."

Another.

"Your mother."

I pause, startled by his sudden change in answer. "I beg your pardon?"

Mr. Steen shrugs. "Your mother," he repeats. His tone is serious, even though he is smiling.

I quickly jot down the sharp transition between zoo animals and the insult before holding up another ink blot. Like always, he doesn't hesitate.

"A chair."

Another.

"Generico's head after I bashed it in with a chair."

I hesitantly raise another.

"Generico laid out after I dropped him on his head through a table."

"Would you look at that? We're out of time for today's session," I announce, attempting to keep my tone level as I set the rest of the stack aside. I check the wristwatch I keep on the desk with me at all times. Fortunately, the twenty minutes has truly elapsed.

Mr. Steen almost appears disappointed. "Aww, already?" he asks.

"Yes, I'm afraid so." I clear my throat and straighten up in my chair, giving him a small smile. "However, I do believe we have made some progress. We will have our next session at the same time next week."

"Yeah! Thanks for the chat, doc. That was fun!" Mr. Steen rises from his chair and holds a hand out. I expect him to shake my hand, though as I go to return the action, he pats me much too hard on the back instead. "I'm gonna go and get something to eat. See ya next week! I look forward to it!"

I let out a long, weary breath as he stops by the garbage can near the door and tosses out his water bottle before he leaves my office. At this point, I'm uncertain if I'm looking forward to our next session as much as he is.

_Case #5: Jimmy Jacobs, 5-23-12. 1:20 p.m._

What kind of man calls himself The Zombie Princess, may I ask?

I'm afraid I really don't have an answer to my own inquiry as I straighten up my desk, making sure all my pens are in order in their holder and sorted by color, my stapler is in its correct spot, and my paper clips are piled neatly in their holder after having my noon hour lunch while the janitorial staff came in and cleaned my carpet. I've also had a few other patients who had come in through the late morning and early afternoon hours– I have to say, after my first client, they were a walk in the park– and I always feel the need to make sure everything is in order whenever a new one sits down to talk with me.

All I know about this matter is I'm looking right at him where he's sitting in the chair across the desk from me. He's wearing a purple shirt that has a low-hanging neck-line, almost as though it's been stretched further than it should have been, a leopard-print scarf, zebra-print boots, and his dark hair is all over the place. He's antsy, biting at the painted nails and skin of his thumbs and lifting and lowering his legs from the cushion of the chair he sits on. It almost appears as though he can't find a comfortable position, which is a clear sign of anxiety. Perhaps unlike his friend Mr. Steen, he is more aware of why he is now sitting in my office. I make a note of this. This is encouraging.

"How are you feeling today, Mr. Jacobs?" I ask, attempting to start our conversation in a friendly manner to hopefully put him more at ease.

He pauses in his fidgeting and looks up at me for the first time. Dark mascara lines his eyes, branching down onto his cheeks in thin lines. He lowers his leg from the chair once again, bites at his thumb one more time. "That's a pretty typical question for a shrink, isn't it?" he wonders, his voice quiet. But then, he shrugs. "I'm okay. Been better."

He is still timid. I make a quick note of this. "You have been better?" I hope these promptings will help him to open up somewhat. From what I have read of Mr. Jacobs' file before he came into my office, the problem he deals with is not with anger, but rather some perceived dissociation with personality. Regardless, it was highly recommended that he seek some professional help, and I am happy to lend my expertise.

Even though I have never had experience with a Zombie Princess before.

He nods. "I mean, I'm here, aren't I?" he poses to me, lifting his leg back onto the chair. "I'm sure there are better places for me to be right now."

I'm starting to wonder if he truly knows why he's here. He certainly doesn't seem to think this is a real appointment for some psychiatric help. It certainly appears there is some dissociation there. I jot this possibility down in my notepad.

"Where would you rather be?" I ask.

Mr. Jacobs shrugs. "I don't know," he answers. "The beach. The shopping mall. The carnival. A bowling alley." He pauses as he thinks of locations that would be more desirable than my office. "The dentist office."

The dentist office? I would not go as far as to say my establishment is as uncomfortable, or as painful, as that. I make another note. _Sense of reality is distorted_.

"Well, I suppose we should get this session underway, then," I suggest, starting to go into a drawer to retrieve the notepad I have all my patients use for the first portion of their sessions. I pause when he shakes his head. "No?"

"No, uh... Um..." Mr. Jacobs bites at his thumb again, his gaze noticeably flitting between all the objects on my desk. "Is there something I can have to drink?"

I smile. "Of course. I just made a fresh pot of coffee. Or there is water, if you would prefer."

"Um... Coffee. Coffee would be fine," he decides after a moment of thought.

I hesitate briefly. After the earlier incident with Mr. Steen, and with how restless he already is, I wonder if the added caffeine would be wise. But I also know that I can't deny a direct request from one of my patients.

"How do you take yours?" I wonder politely as I rise from my seat. "I can pour you a cup since mine is getting low as well."

He looks at me for a minute as though contemplating his response, lowering his leg back to the floor. "Two-and-a-half teaspoons of sugar and four-and-a-third tablespoons of cream," he tells me.

Though his request is strange, I will do my best to accommodate it. I feel his eyes on me as I pour coffee into a new mug for him before refilling mine, and I glance over my shoulder, though Mr. Jacobs is already looking away. I just start to pour in the correct amount of sugar when I hear something being moved around on my desk. I quickly turn around, though he is sitting perfectly still in his chair, before going back to the task at hand.

However, I pause again when I hear something else being shifted as I start on pouring the right amount of cream into my patient's coffee, and I glance over my shoulder again to see that Mr. Jacobs is once again sitting straight in his chair before he lifts his leg back onto his seat and bites at the black nail polish on his thumb as he patiently waits for me.

"Here you are, Mr. Jacobs," I say as I stir his coffee before holding out the mug to him, hoping it is to his liking.

"Jimmy's fine," he mutters as he takes it from me, lowering his leg back to the floor before lifting the other one to rest in its place. "Or just Jacobs." He gazes down at the mug for a moment before sniffing its contents, his nose wrinkling.

I start to wonder if he really desired the coffee, or if he had asked for it in order to stall. It is already no secret that he does not wish to be here and partake in the exercises I have planned for this session. It would not be too far of a stretch for him to delay them. My suspicions are confirmed when he blows on the hot beverage to cool it slightly before he takes a sip, a look of disgust passing over his face as he sets it aside on my desk. I sit back in my proper place and make a quick note of this.

"So, we're going to start with a quick exercise," I explain, pulling out the notepad I had used in all my appointments that morning. "Is that all right with you?"

Mr. Jacobs looks up from the coffee mug, which he had been regarding with disdain, and looks at me with innocent eyes. "Uh, yeah, sure," he mutters, still seeming hesitant about this entire session.

I smile and place the notepad down on the desk in front of him, pulling a black pen out of its holder and setting it on top. He looks at it curiously. "I'd like you to..." I begin, but my sentence trails off when I notice that my stapler is moved over a few inches from its expected spot and the paper clips holder is at a different angle. I quickly straighten both objects before noticing that my patient is gazing at me with confusion, probably wondering why I've stopped.

"I apologize." I clear my throat and lean forward on my desk slightly. "I would like you to draw me a picture, any picture, that reflects how you're feeling right now. Is that all right?"

"Sure." Mr. Jacobs folds both legs underneath him as he leans forward in the chair, picking up the pen and lightly chewing the cap between his teeth as he thinks, I assume, of what to draw. I inwardly cringe. I will have to replace that pen.

His chewing slows a bit when he notices I'm watching him, and realizing that is probably making him uncomfortable, I start to busy myself with looking over the notes I've already compiled for my new patient as well as the file I'd been given on his condition. Yes, there certainly does seem there is a lot of work to be done.

I chance a glance up when I hear something being moved on my desk once again, and I see that my stapler has once more been moved a few inches from where it's supposed to be. I look up at Mr. Jacobs, who is still chewing on the pen cap as he looks thoughtfully down at the notepad, before I push it back to its normal spot and go back to my notes. It is not long before I hear something else being shifted, and I look up to see my paper clips holder is once again at a different angle. I glance at my patient, seeing he's looking back at me with I'm assuming to be feigned innocence, and set my jaw as I put the holder back in its proper spot. I always like to have everything in order so it is easy for me to access. I am proud to say that order has always ruled in this office, for it is not only important for my clients, but also for myself.

Then, I look up once more when I hear more shifting in time to see that a couple pens in their holder are out of place since a blue pen is by the blacks and a couple black ones are in with the blues while another blue is in the middle of the reds. I turn to Mr. Jacobs, seeing he's looking back at me with a small smirk at the corner of his lips as he continues to chew on the pen cap. He is toying with me now.

I sigh and quickly put the pens in the correct order before giving him a stern look. "The exercise, if you please," I tell him.

Most likely recognizing the seriousness of my tone, Mr. Jacobs looks away and removes the pen from his mouth as he turns his attention to the notepad. I make a quick note in my own pad about his behavior. Like his friend Mr. Steen, he also doesn't seem to realize the severity of the reason why he is in my office to begin with, and he is taking the appointment rather lightly.

I am relieved to see him beginning to actually draw something, and I lean forward slightly to see there is a sun in the upper left hand corner before he starts on what appears to be either ribbons or streamers. This is encouraging. He seems to be in a good mood. I quickly jot this down in my notes.

"May I?"

I look up at the quiet question, seeing Mr. Jacobs' gaze is resting on my pen holder. "By all means," I assure him. Most of my patients are quick to finish their drawings, but I am not going to discourage any artistic inspirations. More colors may certainly be used if one wishes.

He smiles slightly as his fingers hover over the pens, seemingly thinking about which ones he's going to pick before finally settling on one red and one blue. He starts with the blue, coloring neatly inside the lines as he fills in the streamers or ribbons he had drawn while lightly chewing on his bottom lip in concentration. I go back to my notes, becoming more and more convinced that there has been some kind of dissociation with his personality, before looking back up when I catch movement out of the corner of my eye. I watch, dumbfounded, as Mr. Jacobs, who has now switched to the red pen, makes broader strokes with it, not even bothering to stay inside the lines, pushing down harder and harder until the paper starts to tear. A darker look is on his face as his eyes narrow, moving the pen faster and faster as large rips start to appear through the entire sheet and small pieces of paper start to fly. Just when I think he can't tear it anymore, he stabs at the drawing a few times before he tosses both the notepad and the pen over his shoulder, not paying attention to where they land. He then sits up straight in his chair again and folds one leg loosely over the other with a smile, almost as though nothing had happened.

For a moment, I'm shocked, unsure of how to proceed. After that brief moment of... possible insanity, he is completely calm as he drums his fingers on the arm of the chair expectantly. "I like drawing," he tells me then, almost as though he does not even realize what he has just done. "It's a good way to relieve stress."

"Are... are you feeling stressed out?" I manage to wonder, my gaze lingering on where the notepad is lying carelessly on the floor. Who knows where that pen ended up? I'll have to have a member of my janitorial staff come in to vacuum up all the shreds of paper from my carpet. But if his behavior over the past few minutes doesn't mean he's stressed, at least a little, I'm going to question everything I've learned over the years as a therapist.

Mr. Jacobs shakes his head. "No, I'm pretty happy, actually," he states. "That's why I was drawing streamers in that picture."

The knowledge I have from countless textbooks, lectures, and experience in the field is failing me right before my very eyes. "And these streamers... they make you happy?"

"Yes! Probably because they're colorful," he confirms with a smile. "They're fun to get wrapped up in."

I quickly make a note of this in my notepad. Like Mr. Steen, he also seems to have a childlike quality about him. "I see. And what else makes you feel happy?"

"Um..." Mr. Jacobs bites down on his tongue while tilting his head to the side and sticking a finger in his ear as though attempting to clean it out while he thinks. He drops his leg to the floor before crossing the other one. "Poetry. I like poetry. Both writing and reading it, or reading what I write to people. That's fun for me."

I make a note of this. He definitely appears to be very involved in artistic endeavors. This is encouraging to me since these outlets are good ways for him to channel any aggressive feelings he has into something positive.

"And murdering people."

I pause in my writing as I look up at him. "I beg your pardon?"

Mr. Jacobs shrugs. "I like murdering people," he says nonchalantly.

I take a moment to decide whether or not my newest patient is being serious about his claim. There seems to be no humor in his tone or his face, though his smile has returned. He's gazing back at me in a way I cannot fathom, and the possibility that he is debating about how he can potentially murder me crosses my mind.

Trying not to think about that, I pick up the blue pen he had used for his destroyed drawing to put away, leaving the black one with the chewed cap where it's resting on my desk to dispose of later. "I think it is time to move on to a different topic," I suggest, putting the pen in the holder with the rest of the blues before putting my pencil to my notepad to make another note. "What makes you feel–!"

But then, I abruptly stop when I see he has reached out to once again move my stapler. "_No_!" I yell to get him to stop, the point of the pencil snapping under the pressure I am applying to it. He has tried my patience too much already with how he has moved things around on my desk.

Mr. Jacobs looks back at me with surprise for a minute before he lowers his gaze and hangs his head. He genuinely appears hurt by my outburst.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath in before slowly letting it out. I repeat this action a couple times to calm myself down. As a therapist, it is not my position to act on any frustrations I may have regarding any patient. It was unprofessional for me to lose my patience in such a manner. "I apologize, Mr. Jacobs," I tell him once I am feeling in control once again. "I should not have raised my voice."

He glances up at me, and I see there is a dejected look lingering in his gaze. It is a look that reminds me of a lost or kicked puppy. "It's okay," he says quietly, though I am unsure if he means it. "What were you going to say?"

Sighing, I stick my broken pencil into the electric pencil sharpener I keep on my desk. It may have been unprofessional for me to yell the way I did, but there was a reason for it. That he doesn't recognize he is also partly at fault is something to pay attention to and make a note of as soon as I am finished with my sharpening. Once the lead is at a perfect point, I write down my note so I don't forget it before leaning forward on my desk.

"I was going to ask you what makes you feel angry." If murdering people makes him happy, I'm almost afraid to know the answer to this inquiry.

"Oh." Mr. Jacobs straightens up in his chair a bit, seeming to be a bit more interested in the conversation again. He also seems to have forgiven me, or at least forgotten about the moment I lost control for the time being. "Well, uh... I don't know what makes me angry, but um... Let's see, where to start?" His eyes narrow slightly in concentration before he continues. "A few years ago, my best friend who was like my older brother turned against me because I was in love with this woman we were working for. I did whatever I could for her, but it never seemed to be enough. I had a rivalry with him where a lot of blood was spilled by both of us, and I stabbed him, as well as other people, in the head with a railroad spike. This woman and I finally got together, and I didn't really feel anything when she said she loved me, and I realized it really wasn't what I wanted. So, I then started a cult of guys who were kinda like me, and this woman was a part of it since I guess we still kinda liked each other. I hung a bleeding man upside down from the ceiling by his ankles, and I continued to stab people with spikes. The woman I used to like then left me for one of my enemies, and after trying and failing to get her back, I attacked her in a parking lot. The people in my cult then started to leave, so I was losing support, and all the stress of that situation caused me to have a mental breakdown, and I turned on my best friend at the time. I stabbed him in the head with a spike, too. More than once. And then, once I was over the whole cult thing, I tried to turn my life around by showing people I had silenced my inner demons and was now a good person. I even sponsored my friend Steve, who's one of my new best friends along with Kevin, as he went through rehab to be a good person, too. But, Steve and I then had some issues with Kevin that we had to deal with, during which I stabbed him in the head with a spike for the first time since I decided to stop doing so. The only problem was, I liked it." He pauses with a smile and a shrug. "So, yeah! That's why I'm here, I guess. I like stabbing people with spikes."

I stare at him in disbelief, having given up writing down notes of his account some time ago. I then write down three words that I feel wrap everything up about my patient: _complete psychotic break_.

"So, is that the reason why you call yourself The... Zombie Princess?" I wonder. The mental breakdown he had could easily explain why he formed this identity.

Mr. Jacobs stares at me with confusion, almost as though he has no idea what I am talking about. I make a quick note of this. It seems as though this Zombie Princess is in control. But, deciding not to push my luck, I clear my throat and pull another sheet of paper out of a drawer.

"We are going to do another quick and simple exercise to wrap up this first session," I explain, setting the paper on the desk in front of me in a way so he cannot see what is written on it. "It is called word association. I am going to say a word from this sheet at random, and without thinking about it, you are going to tell me the first word that comes to your mind. All right?" I find this to also be an effective way to get to the base of a patient's thought process.

"Sure," he replies with a nod before resting his chin in the palm of his hand. He seems bored. "Fire away."

I scan the sheet, picking the first word that jumps out at me. "Dreams."

"Suffering," he says without hesitation.

I hesitate before quickly jotting this down in my notes. "Brother."

"Chaos." Again, no hesitation.

I write this down. "Empathy."

"Ugliness."

"Love."

"Mayhem."

I quickly scan the list again, searching for something harmless. "Pizza."

"Murder."

I pause in my writing, taking a deep breath as I look up at my patient. He once again appears serious. I jot this latest development down before checking my wristwatch. The twenty minutes has elapsed. In fact, we went over by a couple minutes. "Well, I am afraid that is all we have time for this week," I announce with a smile. "We will pick up at the same time next week."

"Cool." Mr. Jacobs immediately rises to his feet, sticking his hands in the pockets of his jeans. "See you around, man."

He crosses the room, stopping by my bookshelf. He glances back at me with a small smirk, reaching out and pulling one book out just a bit before leaving the office.

I let out a weary sigh as soon as the door closes behind him, covering my face with my hands. I am fortunate to have survived that session.

_Case #8: Steve Corino, 5-23-12. 5:05 p.m._

My normal schedule consists of about seven or eight patients a day, depending on when a client is able to come into my office for their next appointment. Normally, I close my office door at five, but since, as was the case with his friends, my newest patient is required to have his first session today so we can begin on his treatments, I have left it open for an extra half hour since five minutes after five is the only time he could come in.

I take a deep breath as I begin to hum quietly to myself while I wait for my last patient of the day. I sip on my lukewarm coffee. If he is anything like his friends before him, I am in for a long twenty minutes. I had best be prepared. I look around my office. Everything is straightened as it should be on my desk. My books are even on their shelves, my carpet has been vacuumed, I found the wayward red pen, and I have a new notepad for clients to draw in sitting in its proper place in the drawer after the last one was ruined. I begin to tap my foot in a steady rhythm as I glance at my wristwatch. My eyes narrow.

It is 5:13. He is late.

I am starting to consider how much longer I should wait before I close down my office for the night when the door opens. A man with black dress pants, a dark dress shirt and tie, glasses, and a bright yellow suit coat hurries in, holding his own thermos. He reminds me of Colonel Mustard.

"Hey, hey, hey! Sorry I'm late," he says cheerfully, closing the door behind him before he crosses the room and shifts his thermos to his left hand in order to hold his right out to me. "I'd say I was stuck in traffic or had a flat tire or something, but quite honestly, I just had something better to do, and I really don't want to be here. Know what I mean?"

I stare back at him, dumbfounded, as I weakly shake his hand. This was certainly an unexpected greeting. He has caught me off guard. "You're... Mr. Corino?" I manage to ask.

"You bet your bottom dollar! The one and only! And you're the man with the weak handshake." He laughs at his own joke as he sits in the chair across the desk from me, loosely crossing one leg over the other as he takes a sip from his thermos and gives it an impressed look. "Mm! You know, I poured my coffee in this thing, like, an hour and a half ago, and it's still really warm. Best one I've ever gotten! Money well spent!"

I'm not even sure what to say, and we're just beginning this session. It's clear that Mr. Corino is very high on himself. I make a quick note of this with my freshly sharpened pencil. Like it has stated in my newest patient's file, he is most certainly showing signs of a narcissistic personality.

He takes another sip of his coffee, once again nodding his approval before holding the thermos out to me. "Want a sip?" he offers.

I raise my hand to politely decline when his gaze lands on my own coffee mug. "You're getting pretty low there, my friend," Mr. Corino observes. "Here, I'll get you some more." Before I can say a word, he grabs it and frowns slightly. "It's pretty cold. Good thing I thought of this."

"Mr. Corino, you don't..." I begin, but before I can get any further, he's already on his feet and crossing the room over to the coffee station.

"Nothing better than a nice, hot cup of coffee," he continues with a smile, dumping the leftovers in the mug down the sink in the corner before pouring more of the freshly made beverage in its place. "How do you take yours?"

I open my mouth to answer, but before I can say a word, he chuckles. "You strike me as the type who likes a lot of sugar," he says, using a tablespoon to pour at least four of five spoonfuls of tiny crystals into the coffee I enjoy black and strong before stirring it all up and coming back to my desk. "Here you are!"

Forcing a smile, I take the mug from him and set it on my desk as he sits back down. I glance at my wristwatch. We still have a little under fifteen minutes of this session left. Sighing, I start to pull the notepad for my patients to draw in out of its drawer. "We're going to begin with–!"

"Let me guess. This is when I start talking about me, right? About everything that's wrong with me and all I've done wrong, right?" Mr. Corino asks as he leans back in his seat.

Once again, I'm interrupted. I make a note of this in my own notepad. _Likes to hear the sound of his own voice. Isn't considerate of others. Signs of narcissism._

"Actually, I–!" I begin, but again, I'm unable to get a word in edgewise as my patient keeps on talking.

"It's okay, it's okay," he assures me. "I'm completely okay with talking about these things. I have no shame. I have nothing to hide."

Deciding that perhaps letting him keep talking would be my best option at this point, I shut the drawer again and lean forward on the desk with my pencil ready at my notepad. "Go ahead, Mr. Corino."

I feel these words wouldn't have even been necessary.

"Geeze, about time. I thought you'd never ask." Mr. Corino takes another sip of his coffee from his thermos before clearing his throat and straightening up in his chair, once again loosely folding one leg over the other. His foot begins to move in a quick though steady tempo. "Well, as you already know, my name's Steve Corino, and I'm an evil person."

I meet his gaze when he pauses, seeing he's looking back at me as though he's waiting for some kind of response from me. Openly saying that he's an evil person insinuates there will need to be a lot of work done involving my latest patient. My preliminary diagnosis of him having a narcissistic personality is becoming clearer and clearer by the minute. Seeing the expectant look still on his face, I drum my fingers on my notepad as I think of what I can say to appease him.

"Well, that–!"

"I mean, I have absolutely no shame in saying that, you know what I mean?" Mr. Corino goes on as though he had never stopped speaking. He shrugs nonchalantly as he smiles. "I've done some pretty horrendous things to a _lot_ of people over the years, my friend. Most of which you probably don't want to hear about. But trust me when I say that each vile deed I've done has been great. And you know what? I like it. I find it fun." He pauses, taking another sip of coffee as he shifts position in his chair. "Now, I had a moment of weakness for some odd number of months where I tried to be a good person. No more evil Steve Corino. My friend Jimmy, who was in here earlier, was my sponsor. Still kinda is, really. He helps me out a lot. Though we've both given up on staying on the straight and narrow, you know what I mean?"

At this point, I'm unsure if I'm supposed to answer his inquiry, or if it's simply a rhetorical question. I look back at him for a long moment, studying his features to try to get an idea of what he wants from me, only to see that he's looking back at me expectantly once again, like he is waiting for me to give an answer. I wait for another minute. He lowers his glasses slightly, looking back at me over the frames.

Finally, I give a conceded sigh. "I'm afraid I–!"

"And then we had our problems with Kevin." Mr. Corino laughs, straightening his glasses with a smile as he again leans back in his seat. "Oh, man, don't get me started on that..." He pauses with a shake of his head and another sip of coffee. "For instance, he told me once that Jimmy, my trusted friend, confidant, and sponsor, was going to die because of my actions before dropping him on his ribs on a couple chairs. But that little bastard, and I say that lovingly, is still going strong. I'm still going strong. And now, my other trusted friend and brother in arms, Kevin, is with me and fighting for _my _cause. Like us, he's going strong. You know what I mean?"

I drop my pencil to the desk, not even bothering to pick it back up. Notes on this man are completely unnecessary. I already know how much of a maniacal and narcissistic son of a bi... biscuit... Mr. Corino is.

However, he's looking back at me as though he, again, expects me to give some kind of response. I can't say that I've ever been in his position, so it is something I am unable to relate to. I may as well give him some crackpot answer, since I doubt I will be able to get anything said anyway.

"I–!"

"Look, my friend. I honestly don't expect you to understand," Mr. Corino tells me as he leans forward in his chair slightly, gazing at me intently. "I mean... I'm a genius! No offense, you're pretty smart, too, but..." His gaze flits to the certificates I've acquired over my years in the field of therapy hanging on the wall behind me. "And those are all well and good! It's just... it's nothing compared to what _I_ have been able to do. I mean, I'm Steve Corino!" He straightens up in the chair, spreading his arms out to the side a bit. "Look at what I've done! I've created a monster in Kevin Steen. I convinced him to turn against that loser Generico. Granted, I did lose control of him, but that's something that can be overlooked, right? I mean... That's all water under the bridge now! Kevin has joined me and my sponsor, Jimmy Jacobs, to form an unbeatable force." He pauses, pointing at himself. His voice rises as he continues to rile himself up and almost pushes himself out of his chair to make his point. "It's my greatest achievement. _I _am the reason this force is so powerful. _I _carefully chose who I wanted at my side. It's _my_ genius why we are so successful. And we will go forward and burn through all those who try to stop us. You know what I mean?"

I give up. I have no answer I can give. At least, not one that I can fully say. There is no point in me trying to say anything in response. This man may claim he's a genius, though I'm not sure how accurate that claim is. Though, mentally playing his little game, I will say he is an evil genius with an obnoxious yellow jacket.

Mr. Corino composes himself and sits back in his seat once more, taking a long sip of his still warm coffee. Mine is still sitting forgotten and cooling on my desk. He shakes his head and chuckles quietly, mainly to himself. "You know what? I don't even know why I'm here," he states. "I don't have a problem. Kevin and Jimmy don't have a problem. You know..." His sentence trails off with another laugh. "It's all a game to them. They find it fun to mess around in here. But they certainly don't have a problem. Though out of all of us, I'm the most normal one here."

I stare back at my newest patient, dumbfounded. I know that his two friends were taking their appointments rather lightly, too, though I wouldn't go as far as saying my sessions are games. Though it doesn't surprise me that they would view them as such.

Then, Mr. Corino takes a deep breath and slaps his knee with his free hand as he rises to his feet. "Well, I have to admit that was a total waste of time," he says with a smile. "I mean, considering I don't have a problem, talking about these things with a supposed professional really isn't necessary. Though I have to say that I always enjoy talking to people about my accomplishments." His smile lingering, he holds his right hand out to me in the same manner as when he arrived. Not knowing what else to do since I have just been insulted, I slowly raise my hand before he grasps it firmly. "Keep that weak handshake, it totally fits you. Thanks for nothing, my friend!"

And with that, Mr. Corino turns on his heel and leaves my office, closing the door behind him with a little more force than necessary.

A long moment passes before I let out a breath I hadn't realized I had been holding. This has been the longest day of my life. I glance down at my wristwatch. The session had only lasted ten minutes.

_From the desk of Dr. Oliver Wainwright_

I hereby present my resignation from this fine establishment and the service of therapy. I will be moving into my in-laws' summer home in Tampa, Florida, where I will be enjoying a much-deserved early retirement. I do not envy the poor soul who will continue to see to the appoints of Mr. Steen, Mr. Jacobs, and Mr. Corino.

... God have mercy on their soul.

I have no regrets leaving my profession. That is all. Goodbye.

**The End**

**Author's Note**: Well, that's it for this lighthearted S.C.U.M. story! Thanks for reading! Your reviews are much appreciated. Thank you!


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